Cura Te Ipsum
by inthelookingglass
Summary: Enjolras- a stressed out paramedic- is surprised by how well he gets on with Grantaire; a regular alcoholic in the back of his ambulance.
1. First Encounter

If there's anything that Enjolras hates about his job as a paramedic, it's late night shifts. Working through the day, he's in his prime. Most of the calls are sports injuries or anti climatic car accidents or the elderly taking falls. He'll be his usual self; charming, as he stitches up a wound or takes someone's blood pressure or whatever it is he has to do. Even the more stressful calls don't cause much stress at all, because his day has been so easy. On the contrary, late night shifts are most often filled with the repercussions of nights out; unfortunate bumps to the head, sprained ankles and worst of all, the drunkenness.

Unfortunately, he's on shift this night. His partner for the shift is Courfeyrac, which lifts the burden slightly as his friend drives mindlessly around the town whilst they wait for a call, but it doesn't stop the fact that he's really not looking forward to the night ahead. All of their other friends- paramedics, doctors and nurses at the hospital(bar Joly who's working in the A&E department)- are celebrating a birthday at the Musain, a local pub; the fact that they're both missing out does nothing to lighten the awful mood. Just as they are about to relax during their final hour, a call comes through.

"We're going to need you to go to the Musain," the call is explained. "Someone's hit their head."

"The Musain, eh? It'll be one of our friends, surely," Courfeyrac grins as he changes the gear quickly and turns round the next corner. "So who do you think it is?"

"Bahorel," Enjolras smiles. "Hit their head, my arse. He'll have been punched."

"Are you sure? I'm betting for Bossuet. Who else is it going to be?"

"How that man is such a good surgeon with his clumsiness, I don't even know."

Neither wins the bet. It isn't one of their friends, in fact. It's a newcomer; a man called Grantaire, who seems to have stumbled across the pub and made quick friends with the medical professionals. But he's drunk; extremely drunk. He's not exactly willing to comply as Enjolras' glove covered fingers prod at the bleeding wound, but a stern look from the blond paramedic sends him into silence.

"Have you had much to drink?" he asks as he tries to clean up the cut.

"No more than..." he stops to hiccup. "Excuse me...usual."

"What exactly happened?" Courfeyrac turns to Combeferre, one of the doctors he works with often in the A and E department.

"He tripped and hit his head on the corner of the table. We wouldn't have called the ambulance if it'd been something we could all deal with ourselves but he'll need stitches and he's saying he's feeling sick."

"Now listen to me, Grantaire," Enjolras asks gently. "Do you still feel nauseous?"

"Y-yeah," he chokes out.

"Do you feel dizzy at all?"

"Kind of."

"It might just be the alcohol, but we're going to take you to hospital anyway because you may have a concussion."

"Thanks guys," Courfeyrac waves, helping Enjolras get Grantaire to the ambulance.

"I'm going to..." the man holds a hand up to his mouth, gagging.

A cardboard bowl is placed underneath his bowl with such speed and precision that by a miracle, the vomit is stopped from coating the ambulance floor. He retches again as Courfeyrac and Enjolras try to decide who'll stay in the back and who will drive.

"You drive," Enjolras says. "You're a better driver and I think Grantaire would appreciate not having his stomach any more in his throat than it is."

"S-s-s-sorry," Grantaire mumbles, tearing up as Enjolras takes a seat across from him.

"It's alright. Do you feel as if you might be sick again?"

"N-no."

"Do you normally get sick with alcohol?"

"N-no. W-with hangovers and withdrawal, but not... not when drunk, no."

He sighs heavily, still hovering over the bowl with a lingering nausea clinging to his throat. He can still taste the alcohol residing in the corners of his mouth, trying to place exactly how much it is that he has drank. As usual, he cannot remember. The number slips his mind like it's meaningless; as if one beer would do just as much damage in his mind as a bottle of whisky.

He can't even pinpoint exactly when alcohol became his muse. His need for it feels desperate; as if he wants to crawl out of his skin when there isn't any surging through his veins. He blames tonight on the good company; the drunken doctors and nurses and paramedics being his scapegoat for his wild night. Of course, that isn't the case. He chugs back alcohol like it's water, whilst the other men realise they've had quite enough once one of their own is left puking in the toilets. He's not even sure why they accepted them into their group; yet they had, and genuinely sought the man's company once he had left.

"Feeling any better?" Enjolras asks, readjusting the bandage on the man's forehead.

"Light-headed," he mumbles.

"The traffic's quite busy so we might be a while," Courfeyrac shouts from the driver's seat. "Even if we put the sirens on it's not as if we could get through."

"M'okay."

"So the Musain, huh? That's where we tend to reside when we're not working," Enjolras tries to calm him with conversation.

"I... uh... was looking for something to do. Stumbled across this pub and was going to stay for just one drink; one of them... Bahorel? We got talking and I ended up staying for longer."

"He's a paramedic too. A bloody good one at that."

"Might have to make my acquaintance with you lot. You sure know how to have a good time."

"You'll be welcome."

Grantaire's strange coherency takes Enjolras by surprise. Most under the influence of alcohol tend to slur, if they're even conscious at all. From the thick smell on his breath and according to what their friends have told them, he has had more than what would be safe. Yet he's unbelievably articulate; Enjolras just can't make sense of it.

"I'm sorry," Grantaire sighs gently as Enjolras moves the little bowl away, taking a deep breath to try and calm himself down. "Hospitals just make me really nervous."

"You might have a bit of a wait. Have you got anybody you want to call to keep you company?" Enjolras asks.

"I'm a lone soldier, my friend. I don't have anyone," this particular thought sends a frown to the poor man's face. "Not sure I'll have the will to wait it out alone."

"You should. A bunch of-albeit drunk- medical professionals thought you were in need of the hospital. If they're not busy I'll try and pull a few strings, okay? Joly should still be on shift. He'll be able to see you quickly if we ask him to. They usually put him in charge of the anxious patients to be seen fast; I'll get you seen that way, alright?"

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Last time I was in an ambulance the paramedic was just... I don't even know. He treated me like I wasn't even human. Okay, I'd like... passed out drunk in the street but still."

"I don't have the right to judge people like that. It's my job to help people so that's what I'm going to do."

"I like you, my friend."

As Grantaire departs from his company, Enjolras is sure they will never cross paths again. As it turns out, this is not exactly the case.


	2. Tough Shift

It's morning before Enjolras and Courfeyrac return to the house they share with Courfeyrac(christened 'The Bachelor Pad' and only in existence to make it easy to get to work for all three). Courfeyrac slumps onto the sofa with a great thud, his stomach rumbling from their missed meal hour(they were going to have KFC as well) but too lazy to make his way through to the kitchen. As if by some miracle, Combeferre has scheduled a few days off this particular week, and goes to rustle up some toast.

Enjolras pushes his aside after nibbling just a corner, shrugging as Courfeyrac takes a bite of it instead. Combeferre doesn't raise an eyebrow; he knows that Enjolras can be a little out of sorts after stressful night shifts. Courfeyrac finally wanders through to his room after about half an hour, but Enjolras remains in the same spot; still and silent. Combeferre doesn't try to pry. He just waits; Enjolras will confide in him at some point. Peering over from the corner of his book, he knows that the confidence will come soon.

"Combeferre?" his voice is strained, anxious.

"Hmm?" he tries his best to sound as if he hasn't been expecting this.

"I'm sorry... I just..." the blond runs a hand shakily through his hair. "Really stressed."

"Are you getting kind of anxious?"

"Kind of? Try a bloody lot. Sorry for bothering you, I just..."

"It's alright."

This isn't exactly abnormal; he loves his job, but it does often take its toll on him. He pushes himself to the limit or gets upset or doesn't allow himself to let his hair down; these anxious confessions are just nothing more than a release.

"I just... hate night shifts. I feels so silly getting like this about it. I'll be okay in a minute. We just end up not eating anything and it's always the upsetting patients and I just can't handle it sometimes."

"You're not doing that shift tomorrow night. You've had a week or two of them and I don't think you can cope with that."

"But-"

"I'll phone in sick for you tomorrow morning. It's not fair for you to be dumped with all those night shifts when you could alternate with Bahorel or something."

"But tomorrow will be the last for a while. I'll... I'll be fine."

"Remember the last time you were this bad and went ahead with your shift? You literally became the patient in the back of the ambulance you got so anxious. I don't want that again. That was horrifying."

"I was... I was ill that time though. I wasn't myself."

It's a memory that Combeferre does not wish to relive. It's not even as if his life was in danger or that he was really struggling; he just can't bear to think of his friend being such a far cry from his optimistic self. The thought does creep up on him despite several attempts to quench it, his mind filled with the image of Enjolras freaking out like he is now.

It hadn't been a good time. Enjolras had finished a week of busy shifts; including but not exclusive to a bad car pile up, a suicide and a brawl outside a pub. Feeling as if he'd been hit by a planet, he had climbed into the front with Bahorel and wasted no time in expressing his deep hatred for the world. Just the idea of the man who'd slipped from life in the ambulance an hour or two again sent a lump to his throat. Bahorel watches as the man sighs, not quite sure if he should start driving back to the hospital to collect their things with how uptight he seems.

"I'm treating myself to a big mac tonight," he grinned towards his colleague, trying to squeeze something from Enjolras' pursed lips.

"Hmm?" he looks up, his hair astray and his eyes almost glassy.

"Everything alright?"

"Tough shift."

"It's always horrible when somebody snuffs it. Best way to get over it? Drink those problems away."

"I don't drink."

"Maybe you should start."

"Sorry, I just..."

"I'm forgetting you've been on these night shifts everyday this week; probably because you're the only bastard silly enough to say yes to them. They never ask me to; shame really, I'm good with the people of the night."

"They always give me them," he takes a slow laboured breath, feeling the panic rise in his throat. "I'm... sorry..."

"Hey, hey, hey!" Bahorel's voice sinks into a tone of concern. "Don't you be having a panic attack on me or you'll have me crying like the big sop I am!"

But it's too late; Enjolras is practically rasping as Bahorel's instincts set him into overdrive and he puts his foot down on the accelerator. His colleague is shaking, trying desperately to hide the irrational fear he's feeling behind clenched fists and gritted teeth. He knows it's probably unnecessary and that all Enjolras needs is a bite to eat and a good night's sleep, but he drives straight towards the hospital with the intention of finding Combeferre somewhere in the A and E department. He hadn't known of course, that Combeferre wasn't on night shift. Instead, the pair seek refuge in one of the staff rooms whilst Bahorel tries to contact Combeferre to ask how to calm him down. Feuilly-a nurse at the hospital, and good friends with the pair- wanders through and grins towards them as he makes a cup of tea.

"Take as long as you can," he smiles, because they're not even in their own staff room or anything. "Night shift?"

Enjolras nods tiredly, anger creeping through his veins at the fact he's being so silly. Neither man leaves his side though; Feuilly fetches him a cup of tea and a biscuit whilst Bahorel finally gets through to Combeferre. He'd been upset like this the night before; not quite as bad as this, but enough for him still to be in a strange mood on this particular day.

"Hey," Combeferre arrives within ten minutes, smiling towards an embarrassed looking Enjolras. "You've got the week off now; we should head home."

Enjolras often has the tendency to get a little anxious about his job, but never to this degree. Usually he'd be able to internalize it and wait until he was in the comfort of his own house; he wouldn't dream of getting like this in front of his colleagues. Of course during this particular time, the collapse of the barriers could be accounted for the fact that he well, collapsed the following day suffering from some sort of virus.

Combeferre doesn't want that again; of course he doesn't. If it means Enjolras has to miss a day of his beloved work(he loves it he really does, it just upsets him sometimes) to avoid this then so be it. He can't stand the thought of his friends being upset; if the day ever comes that he finds Enjolras in a bed in his emergency department, he may just have to quit his job from the stress of it all. He knows he's a worry wart and he knows that he's being silly, but he can't help it; he cares too much.

"If you're good, I'll get you a KFC," he grins, giving his friend a pat on the shoulder.

"You know the way to my heart," Enjolras smiles back, a laugh building in his throat. "Thank you. I don't think I could actually handle a shift tomorrow."


	3. Doctor's Orders

Grantaire's night in the busy A and E department almost takes an abrupt end; he doesn't want to stay, but he's told the wait will be at least an hour. Sighing, sandwiched between a fraught older lady and a middle aged man, he tries desperately to suppress the nausea curling its way awkwardly around his throat. He gags about twenty minutes in, but all it gains is a piercing glare from the woman who swiftly swaps seats, and a cardboard bowl in his hands from the triage nurse who tells him 'just a little while longer'.

He occupies this last twenty minutes are so with remembering his trip in the ambulance. He's never once met a nice paramedic(either he's really unlucky or he's just really not very likeable), yet Enjolras had been nothing short of charming. He knows it's a warped sense of comfort, but it works so he doesn't really care.

Joly calls him in a few minutes later, slightly fraught looking after a long night shift.

"So I heard you acquired this particular injury at one of my favourite haunts?" he smiles. "The Musain, hmm?"

"Met two of your friends in the ambulance too."

"I heard. Feeling pretty rubbish then?"

"Uh, yeah. Almost puked over the waiting room."

"I don't think it's concussion, but you need a couple of stitches so we'll sort that cut out, alright?"

"Why don't I feel good then?"

"We're going to check the levels of alcohol in your blood; I have a feeling that may be why you feel unwell. If you'll allow me, I'll check your blood sugar levels first."

Joly nicks Bahorel's finger, allowing the blood to drip onto the strip protruding from the little monitor. It beeps, and as expected, it's low. Joly nods, taking note of the figure on his notepad.

"Definitely low," he sighs. "Have you eaten anything today?"

"Not really, I don't think."

"And how much alcohol do you think you may have consumed today? You seem more sober now, yet from what my friends have said you were quite intoxicated earlier."

"More than I should have."

"No food and a heavy alcohol consumption; it's not a good combination, Grantaire. We'll get you something sugary and some water, and someone can come and pick you up? And rest tomorrow. You'll have a splitting headache, I bet."

"C-can I quickly phone my sister, then?"

He really doesn't want to call her, but it's his only option. She'd allowed him to stay with her, yet her conditions were that he wasn't to go out and get drunk at all or else he'd be demoted to the sofa. He sighs, knowing that he'll have to put on the waterworks to convince her to come and pick him up, but it's a challenge he's willing to face.

"Look Suzanne," he begins, bracing himself for her reaction. "Don't be mad. Please don't be mad."

"You don't sound well," there's suspicion in her voice, but he can't deny the obvious concern too.

"M'drunk. I hit my head; needed stitches," he bites his lip, allowing emotion to warp his tone a little. "Too much alcohol; I've puked a bit."

"Okay. I um..."

"Don't be mad! Please..."

"I'm not going to be mad, R. It's been a shitty week. It's no wonder you've relapsed a bit. I'll pick you up, alright?"

He hadn't even had to fake the histrionics. The awkward bubble of nausea creeps in his throat, and his eyes are literally pulsing until he finally lets the tears go. Joly silently hands him a tissue, smiling gently as Grantaire dismisses his concern. This is much like his usual Saturday night; troubled souls shaken up by a little too much of a toxic substance. He tries his best not to judge; the people who pass through the hospital doors aren't always going through the best of times, and it's his job to make them feel at least a little better.

Suzanne appears about fifteen minutes later; her brow somehow softer, her smile somehow gentler than what he's used to. Granted, their parents have just split up('a ticking time bomb', Grantaire had called it), and both have been trying to make amends with the siblings in attempt to use them to spark jealousy from the other. But Suzanne and Grantaire? They hate them both. They know fine well what their parents are trying to do.

"I know mum's been sucking up to you all week," she sighs as she climbs into her car. "And I know it's difficult, R."

"M'alright."

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm used to this much alcohol in my system, anyway. I mean... I usually sneak out when you won't be able to tell."

"You must have had a bit more than usual; you wouldn't have got like this if you hadn't."

"C-can we talk about something else?"

"Sorry."

"The paramedic in the ambulance was fit," he grins sheepishly, leaning his head into the back into the seat. "Think I puked on them though. I hecked up didn't I?"

"Grantaire?"

"Hmm?"

"Get some rest, eh? We've still got a fifteen minute drive and you're rambling a little."

"Sorry, I'm kind of drunk."

"Kind of?" she smirks, but there's not the slightest bit of spite in her voice. "A little more than kind of, R."


End file.
